


The Champion

by Caprice363



Category: Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser - Fritz Leiber
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Confrontations, Fafhrd/Mouser, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Touch, Unrequited Lust, angsty sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:27:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21842155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caprice363/pseuds/Caprice363
Summary: Story No. 5. The Mouser has a stalker. A postscript to When the Old Gods Dance.
Relationships: Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	The Champion

HE WAS named Teven Drake, but more often called “Mingolsbane.” A former marine of Lankhmar, he was veteran of those long ago campaigns in which the steppe-dwelling horsemen invaded the cities of the west, their intent to kill and conquer. Drake had vanquished more than his share of Mingols and, to hear old timers speak of it, had won the war all but single handed. He did, in fact, slay the Great Khan who had brought the tribes together. With their leader dead and numbers greatly reduced, the Mingols returned home to boast of slaughter amassed in the glory of battle.

They reappeared as excellent craftsmen and traders who continued to roam Newhon’s bubble. Some became mercenaries; some seaman. Many were rogues. But Mingolsbane Drake, now commander of the guard at Heartsgold Hall for House Menius, had no love for any of them and never would. 

It was the year of the Burning Mountain in the month of the Witches’ Moon on the day of the Parrot when Drake left the Mermaid’s Veil, possibly the worst tavern – with a name – in the City of the Black Toga. It was a cold drizzle of a night, almost bitter following a spring-like day of humidity and heat. He pulled his cloak with its great fur mantle closer. Winter, at last, was truly setting in, the perfect compliment to his dark mood. 

The bloody riot and aftershocks of the Satyr’s Moon and the Phantom Coach were over. Its victims freed and the caravan gone leaving the wealthy to their palaces and mansions in the west of Lankhmar and Cheapside’s impoverished in the east. For himself, Teven Drake no longer frequented taverns like the Silver Eel. He only wished to keep to himself and drink without interruption alone. Drake left the Veil to return to the Heartsgold barracks; then turned, drawing his sword as a shadow separated from the alley. 

A part of the darkness came to life as the Gray Mouser appeared only a sword’s thrust away. He was dressed in his customary shadow silks and soft-falling ratskin boots, completely unlike the harem rags Drake had last seen him wearing. Tiger eyes peered up at him as the cat held up both hands, weapons free, to signal peace. No red-haired barbarian stood beside him. It seemed he, too, was alone.

“Greetings, o champion of Lankhmar, commander of the cities’ bravest and true, savior of kidnapped youth and bringer of peace. How goes it?” the Mouser said, courtly pomp drenched in street-rat dialect.

“Well enough,” Drake replied gruffly, returning his blade to its sheath though he remained on guard. The Mouser oft times coated his words in thick gutter tones. It was but one of his arsenal of tricks, encouraging a sense of superiority in fools, which he was not. “You seem in good health.”

“I am,” the cat said, the familiar cocksure grin dancing across his face. “Thanks for asking.”

“And your sword-mate?”

“Fafhrd is also well.” The Mouser swept into an elaborate bow. “We both thank you for your help that night. I, too, am in your debt.” 

“What else are old marines good for but fighting? However, you are welcome.”

The Mouser nodded, accepting the courtesy. Unasked, he fell into step beside the commander as he resumed his journey. They walked in silence for a time which gave Drake a chance to look him over. Slender and light on his feet, the cat stood just at his shoulder. Under the faint stream of moonlight, he glimpsed a dark-skinned profile and upturned nose, arched brow, the slant of cheekbones and fulsome lips. That cat’s grin deepened as he darted him a direct look. Caught unaware, Drake started. Had he actually been staring? He actually had. 

“‘Ware that puddle,” the Mouser said casually indicating the ground before them. “It’s deep as the Hlal.” 

“I know,” Drake said, regaining his composure and stepping around it. 

“Mm…I would not have taken you for a patron of the Veil.”

“Why not? It’s as good a place as any.” 

“You jest – or have a death wish. Even I don’t visit that poisoned grog shop often, and never long enough to establish a pattern. Do you look for another fight? You keep more coin in your purse than you spend, Commander. It lures less respectable thieves to your side.” 

The Mouser matched Drake step for step. Well, the commander mused, he was used to keeping up with his big friend. “Let them come," he said. "I’m the champion of Lankhmar, remember?”

“With three of your men and Fafhrd at your side,” the Mouser parried. “Somehow their contributions have become lost in the narrative.”

“Are you saying I should boast of their participation?”

“I do not. What I’m saying is there are those who see a champion as a challenge. Like the one I found back in that alley tonight.”

“I was tracked?”

“Not anymore.”

“I do not need your help,” Drake blazed. “I suppose you think I owe you now?”

“Not at all,” the Mouser soothed. “Just one friend helping another.” 

“Is that what we are? 

"We should be, at least in passing. Don't you know you have friends at the Eel?” 

“None I want.” Drake came to a halt. “Are you following me? Did Fafhrd send you to spy on me?”

“Why would he do that?” The Mouser turned to face him, hands on his hips. “I am here of my own accord.”

“Why?”

“To talk some sense into you. You’re Fafhrd’s friend. You’re my friend if you’ll have it so.”

Drake laughed though it was not a happy sound. “I thought that was the purpose of Fafhrd’s warning? That I was not to have you.”

“Do not misunderstand,” the Mouser purred darkly. “You do not get to _have_ me. I am not trade goods nor can I be bought. If you wanted me, you should have said so. Then I could have said 'no' to your face.” 

“Does Fafhrd know you’re here?” Drake snarled.

“Not yet, but he will. We keep no secrets from each other, at least none as you imply.”

“What if he doesn’t like it?”

“What if he doesn’t?” The Mouser gave a half laugh. “Do not cross lines you're not prepared to deal with, Drake. But as long as we’re being honest, you must know I will not have Fafhrd in another man’s debt. Not if I can help it.” 

“So I'm not to touch you, but you’ll slay my assassins for me?” Drake folded his arms over his chest. He wasn’t as tall as Fafhrd, but he was well-muscled and broader at the shoulders. He was older, too, with a seasoned warrior’s experience. “You’re as full of your own shite as ever, little bravo. I’ll give you that.”

The Mouser’s expression remained neutral. Insults rarely brought him rage; he processed. And if it came to a fight, he was always ready. 

“You’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you?” Drake said, half bitter, half mournful. 

“Most times, yes." 

Already these were more words than he’d used in a fortnight. The commander began a different attack. “I see you everywhere.”

“I know,” the cat replied coldly. “I’ve seen you watching us from afar. Watching me.”

“You don’t have to be afraid of me.” 

“I am not - but it cannot continue.”

“It was pure happenstance the first time.” Drake huffed a long sigh, eyes still bright. “Late last summer at the corner of Cash and Carter. You were dressing down a coachman for beating his horse. You kicked him across the square and back until he took that nag to shade and gave it water. I didn’t hear what you said after, but he was white as dust when you left.”

The Mouser’s nostrils flared at the memory. “Just told him I’d be back if I found out he punished the beast later. And that I wouldn't go as easy on him.”

“You would have killed him.”

“In all likelihood, yes.” There was a low menace in his voice that raised the short hairs on Drake’s neck.

“Why that horse, why that driver? This is not the work of cutthroats and barbarians, you and Fafhrd suffer from some curse of empathy. It pulls you into the lives of others. And I don’t know which of you has it worse.” Something flickered in Drake’s storm gray eyes. He remained a handsome man with thick black hair and a forked beard, both streaked in silver. Age was taking its toll. “I didn’t think much of it until I saw you again at a market stall. You’d just slit a vendor's purse and bought his treats with his own coin. Before I could think what to do, call the watch or let you go, you were on your way, scampering off like the stray you are.” The dark glower softened. “Almost lost you twice among the alleyways. Until there you were at a line of hovels, most ready to collapse, and sharing those sweetmeats with a pair of young beggars. Then you played a few games of coin toss with them and you lost. Every. Throw. No one with your skill loses like that.”

“People always think the smallest ones fetch the most coin,” the Mouser said, defiant, his accent less pronounced. Genuine this time, Drake suspected. “But they don’t. There’s too many of them and it’s easy enough to look away. So what if I lost a few tiks and algols? There’s always more to be had.” 

“And more to distribute.” Drake warmed to his frustration. “The barbarian’s even more generous with his handouts. But you – you know every street and noxious alley in Lankhmar from high-end to low. You frequent the Plaza of Dark Delights, especially the Nightingale, playing Nine Man Morris and Twenty Squares with the old men. You buy the ale or wine, according to the player’s preference. You lose almost as often as you win. You’re afoot nearly every day sharing gossip and stories, playing tricks and cutting any purse you’ve a mind to. You could flatter the coin out of a miser.” 

“You have to steal from misers; they give nothing away.” The Mouser scowled, impatient and, in truth, overwhelmed. He had not expected these revelations.

“You would know.” Drake tilted his head to one side. “Let us discuss the games you play on Fafhrd. Again, in the market – you arrive together then lose yourself in the crowd only to pop up again from some unlikely corner, all grins and chuckles. Sometimes he does the same to you, but not as well. Still, he’ll chat up a mark while you pick pockets or ply your knife.”

“What if I said we spotted you, Fafhrd and I?” The Mouser wanted to end this discussion … or throw a rock at Drake’s skull.

“I would have been surprised if you didn't. After the first accidents, I made no effort to conceal myself.” 

“All men are mad in some way, but you, Commander, are drowning in it.” The Mouser held his ground. “It’s no wonder Fafhrd’s spooked. Myself now as well.”

“That …was not my intention.” Suddenly, Drake felt ashamed. “This was more a game to me than pursuit, but it ends now. You have my word.”

“I will accept it,” the Mouser said. "And I'm not a cutthroat, I'm a thief. The man who beats his horse because its dying of thirst near the well is the same man who beats his wife and kicks beggars. He lives off the pain of others until someone makes him stop. I won’t pretend to be a good man, Mingolsbane, but I won’t endure a bully." A long moment passed, until the Mouser suddenly closed the distance between them. He placed his hand on Drake’s arm, his touch feather-light. “Have you no friends at all? No sweetheart or favored man?”

“Pickings are slim the older you get. It’s just not worth the trouble,” the commander replied, taken aback. Drake hesitated, wordless. He had fallen in lust with this small, graceful man some months ago. Following the Mouser, he’d hoped to shatter that obsession, discover some secret cruelty or vice. What he’d seen only made matters worse, and watching him with Fafhrd, the bond they shared even when they argued, had become a kind of hell. No matter what else they were, they were good. Compelled by moonlight and topaz, he brushed the Mouser’s hood away to lay his palm on the back of his head, to feel the texture of warm, silky hair and watch those eyes lift to his. The gray gloved hand tightened on his arm, to compel or warn, Drake couldn’t choose. One was fantasy, the other …

Regaining his composure, he stepped around the Mouser to resume his march. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Did I ever tell you why I’m called ‘Mingolsbane’?” 

“No.”

“Just so. And I never will.” He nodded once more. “My humble apologies, Gray One. To Fafhrd as well.” 

Teven Drake kept walking. Alone. 

**  
ICED TO the bone, the Gray Mouser returned to the Silver Eel and the room he shared with Fafhrd. Hours had passed and dawn’s rosy blush was doing its best to rise through Lankhmar’s smog without much success. Shivering, he peeled off damp cloak and clothes, pausing only to swallow the last of the Niada in his flask. It blazed a smooth, fiery trail from lips to gullet, but he was still miserably cold. The brazier was all but out, and the heap of pillows and quilts on his own cozy pallet would be frigid. He wasn’t much into self-sacrifice when there was another path to take. The Mouser quickly crossed the short distance to Fafhrd’s bed and threw himself in under the covers.

Fafhrd was a heavy sleeper who sometimes retired early. Following later, the Mouser joined him on those nights when he did not wish to sleep alone, which was often. Once there, his sword-mate began what the cat secretly called “the chase.” Without waking, Fafhrd would instinctively begin swatting around until, once located, the cat was pulled close. It was pleasurable for both of them and, at the moment, the Mouser was especially eager to crawl under the Northerner’s arm. _It’s the little things,_ he mused closing his eyes. 

Tonight, or rather, this morning it was different. Fafhrd broke off mid-snore after bringing the Mouser in. Sea green eyes winced open. “The fuck,” he moaned. 

“Sorry … sorry,” the Mouser murmured, burrowing closer. “I’m cold."

“You’re ice.” Fafhrd roused himself to press the back of his hand against the Mouser’s brow, relieved to discover no fever. “And just one crown away from a royal pain in the ass.”

“Kiss me anyway?”

Still half-asleep, Fafhrd obliged as he began to rub warmth into frost-cold skin, pleased as the cat surrendered to his touch. The Mouser’s lips were soft and yielding, his mouth like fire. “I detect the taste of Niada,” he said hoarsely. “Got any more?”

“Sorry again. I just drank the last of it.”

“This keeps getting better and better.” Fafhrd found himself caught between a laugh and a growl. "It helps to be a stoic partnered with you."

“I promise a bottle tomorrow just for you, stoic.” The Mouser kissed Fafhrd’s sternum. “If I can find one.”

“Where were you tonight?”

The Mouser leaned into Fafhrd's touch. “At the harbor,” he said. 

“The harbor in this weather? What for?”

“Was looking for Teven Drake.” 

The Northerner was becoming more awake by the moment. “Why?”

“Because he’s disappeared from all his usual haunts including the Eel. Because he’s following me it turns out. Because he helped us. Because you feel you’re in his debt.” The Mouser released a disgruntled sigh, tensing again. “Choose one.” 

“And you thought not to tell me of this?”

“I’m telling you now.” The Mouser regarded his sword-mate steadily. He brushed red-gold hair from Fafhrd’s face, tucking it behind his ear. “He was a good friend to you, Faf.” 

“And now he’s champion of Lankhmar,” the Northerner returned sardonically. “Seems a good trade. Better him than us.”

“Drake’s the champion of solitude. He doesn’t have a single friend – and he taken to pits like the Mermaid’s Veil.” The Mouser made a face. “There was a cutthroat waiting outside for him tonight.” 

“Which I’m certain you took care of.” Fafhrd captured a fistful of dark curls at the base of the Mouser’s neck and shook him gently. “Debt repaid. Let it end there.”

The Mouser twisted free and turned on his side although he remained in the shelter of Fafhrd’s body. He propped his head up on one hand. “Why so wary?”

“You didn’t see how he looked at you during that dance of yours. Or hear him stumbling for words after. I did.” Fafhrd placed his hand on the Mouser’s hip. "Then he put his hands on you."

"He put me on the horse." 

Fafhrd lifted an eyebrow. "Is that all you remember?"

“All right ... I can't say your instincts are wrong.” The Mouser dropped his gaze. “He told me things tonight. It was … disturbing.”

“What things?”

“This hunt has gone on longer than I thought. I spied him a few times, but felt no threat. Now I am amazed at my stupidity.” He frowned, angry with himself. “Still, Drake says he’ll stop. And he apologized.” 

Fafhrd remained silent, not trusting himself to speak.

The Mouser looked up again. “I know why they call him ‘Minglolsbane.’” 

“Let me guess. He killed a lot of them during the wars.”

“That’s just it; he killed a lot. Hundreds all on his own or so they say. Do you know why?”

“Is this where you tell me he had a sword-mate? One who was killed in battle and that he’s never found another?”

“This is where I tell you his sword-mate was captured by Mingols. You know what they do. He was tortured for days and killed just as Drake found him. There would have been no saving him, but the man has never made peace with it.” The Mouser sighed. “He told me nothing, but it wasn’t hard to find the truth. A few more bars and drinks with a few old vets until I found the right one. He was half-drunk already so it didn’t take much to get him talking.” 

“Determined as always,” Fafhrd grumbled. “You could tease secrets from a sphinx, but then she’d have to kill you.” 

“Not if I run.” 

“And confident. Too confident.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“No, you are not. Not enough anyway.” This was an old argument. Fafhrd leaned in to kiss his forehead, his eyelids. He lingered at the corner of his lips. The Mouser opened to him, inviting entrance.

There was nothing more to say. They fell into mutual silence, abandoning words for touch. Gradually, the room became brighter and Fafhrd noted the dark smudges under the Mouser’s eyes. Gently, he smoothed his thumb over them. The Mouser pressed his lips to Fafhrd’s palm, draping his arm and leg over the Northerner again. His fingers curled into Fafhrd’s shoulder rhythmically kneading the muscle. 

“We lose ourselves in the ones we love. We find ourselves, too,” the cat murmured in a low, hoarse voice. “I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you. I can’t even think about it.” 

“Then don’t.” Fafhrd fell back, bringing his sword-mate with him. “We have long sagas in the north, land of cold flesh and warm hearts as you like to say. Two souls are created together and in love with each other before they are born. Once they find each other, they cannot be separated. We cannot be separated.” 

“I like that.” 

“And I.” Fafhrd ran his fingers through the Mouser’s hair. “What if we never die?”

“Or we just keep being born together again and again like Ning said?” 

“Now who’s the romantic?” Fafhrd laughed softly, sadly. “Though for Issek’s sake, I pray the gods go easier on you in the next life. No more rough beginnings.”

“As I’ve said before, I was pure evil in my past. Even now I feel it rise in me in ways I can’t begin to explain.”

“I don’t believe it. We’ve both committed questionable deeds and both know the pain of them. You’re no more evil than I am.”

“Says the man who never played with black magic.”

“Says the man who plays with you.” Fafhrd kissed the crown of his head. “And the man who loves you.” 

The Mouser was shaking again. Fafhrd knew just what to say; just how to reach him and it warmed him to his soul. Still, he shrugged off the desire to cower in his arms, the need to be held and comforted like a child. Throwing his head back, the Mouser stared into sea green eyes. “Show me how much,” he whispered, sliding his hand down to the great heat between Fafhrd’s legs. “I do not want Drake’s sorrows filling my head when I dream.”

Fafhrd required no encouragement. He rolled the Mouser beneath him, feeling the hunger echo through them both. The cat was the best friend he’d ever had, his partner and his confident. Lust was fine; lust was fun, but the Mouser was the eternal haven of his soul. Fafhrd felt easier knowing he took Drake seriously. The best and most cunning swordsman in Lankhmar, the cat could indeed take care of himself, but such conversations always left them on edge. Release came quickly, each crying out when orgasm hit. Fafhrd’s back arched, his head thrown back in a roar of challenge. The Mouser clutched him hard, keening his response. Fading into sleep, his fist fell open near the pillow; he looked mostly at peace. 

Fafhrd lay on his back again, drowsy but awake. He dragged the Mouser against him, covering them both with the quilts. It was easy to lie under the cat's warmed body, suspended in the luxury of a safe bed and a locked door. They were surrounded by friends and allies at the Silver Eel, the best good will and money could buy, and no sad, haunted man watching from the shadows. 

Better to be a warrior than a champion, a man who followed no banner save his own, and could fight for himself and the one he loved Fafhrd reasoned. The Mouser had always done the same for him through howling towers, Kleshite sorcery, in Quarmall and even during the bad time in Lankhmar when they’d argued and grown apart. They remained true to each other. Whatever fate awaited them, they would face it together.


End file.
